The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  “Any word on Vendanj?” Tahn asked.

  Braethen looked up. “Not yet.” Then he returned to his reading.

  Tahn regarded the sodalist, still getting used to thinking of him that way for real. “What are you reading?”

  “History,” he mumbled without looking up this time.

  “Are you coming to endfast or not?” Sutter asked, dressing.

  The sodalist put down his book and pressed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I could use a break.” He looked gaunt and pale from lack of sleep. “Mira said not to leave the inn.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sutter said.

  They left the room and found a serving matron in the hall near the kitchen. The common room stood vacant by comparison to the prior evening, though a few dozen men and women sat eating endfast. The serving matron led them to the kitchen where the sweet smell of honey frakes—a delicious potato cake—joined the bouquet of appetizing aromas. Tahn guessed Mira had arranged the location of this meal, where there were fewer eyes to notice them.

  Pushing through the door, they found Wendra lending a hand in the kitchen.

  “Come and eat.” She dished out four plates and set them at a table to one side of the oven.

  Sutter had seated himself and taken half a honey frake before Tahn even found a seat.

  “Thank you, Wendra,” Braethen said, and took a seat beside Sutter.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied. “You are to eat and then wait in your room.”

  “We got the command,” Sutter mumbled around his food. He nudged Tahn under the table, signaling him to hurry. If they finished their morning meal before Braethen, they might escape into the city without any further admonitions.

  Tahn poured fresh grape mash from a carafe and drank deeply. He wasn’t sure he wanted to venture any further into Myrr, even during the day. He remembered Balatin talking about the larger cities, and how he had moved to the Hollows to escape the constant intrigues and politics. Still, something stirred his heart at the prospect of seeing the sights, perhaps even the palace. Tahn began shoveling his food into his mouth. He wasn’t a Sheason, or even a sodalist. He was a hunter of no repute—safely anonymous.

  Shortly, Sutter stood. “I’m done. I guess I’ll head back to the room,” he said.

  Tahn rose as well. “I’ll join you. I need to fletch a few arrows.”

  Braethen looked at his plate, still half full, and appeared conflicted.

  “We’ll be fine, Braethen,” Sutter assured. “You keep Wendra company while she finishes morning endfast, and we’ll see you in the room.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Sutter turned toward the hall, where the stairs ascended into the Stone’s upper levels.

  “Delicious, Wendra. Thank you,” Tahn said.

  “A meal fit for the First Ones,” Sutter called from down the hall.

  Tahn hastened to catch his friend, who was already exiting the front door of the Granite Stone toward the streets of Myrr.

  They’d just broken into the sunlight when a soft voice called, “I think you two are lost.”

  Tahn and Sutter turned simultaneously to see Mira standing beside a large cart to the right of the door.

  “You’re kidding. Really? Are you on guard here?” Sutter sounded more disappointed than incredulous.

  “We were just—”

  “Don’t do yourself the disservice of a lie,” the Far said. “This is not travel for its own sake. Remember our purpose. Remember what we’ve passed through to get this far. And don’t try the kitchen entrance, either. I’ve got someone watching it for me.”

  Tahn pulled Sutter by the shirt. They walked back into the cooler environs of the Granite Stone, a bit dejected and more than a little embarrassed. For Tahn’s part, he’d have been as happy to stand with Mira on her watch. Her hair shone lustrous, seeming more a deep auburn than black in the full light of day.

  As they reached the staircase, Braethen burst out of the kitchen, the crumbs of a honey frake still on his lips. His face made it clear. It had taken him another minute, but he’d realized why Tahn and Sutter had finished their endfast so quickly. Sutter shook his head. Tahn shrugged. Braethen smiled.

  “Just as well,” he said. “By the way, the inn has a natural hot-water spring in its basement. Ulee told me that generations ago this place served as a temple, built to honor the land for the blessing of its curative waters. They schedule it every fifteen minutes. I used it last night when I couldn’t sleep. I put you two on the list, and your turn just began.”

  “I don’t think—” Sutter began.

  “You need to bathe,” Braethen insisted. “You have fifteen minutes all to yourselves.”

  This time they both shrugged and followed the sodalist back to a hall just off the kitchen where a large granite door hung from great iron hinges. Pushed lightly, the heavy door easily swung inward. They followed him down a stair carved from the same stone. The sound of water grew and the feel of steam brushed Tahn’s cheeks as they descended lower and lower. Lamps affixed to the walls dripped with condensation. At the bottom of the stair a natural cavern almost three times the size of their quarters opened up. Small benches had been set at the edge of a square fount rimmed with the same granite.

  Sutter dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into the water. “Will and Sky, Tahn, it’s like water boiled over the pit.” He began tearing off his clothes. Before Tahn had removed his shirt, Sutter had jumped into the pool, splashing water all over himself.

  Soon Tahn and Sutter were relaxing in the spring, their heads lolling back on the granite rim. They listened to the water drip from the ceiling and let the strain of their journey slip from their bodies.

  As they rested there, the door at the top of the stair opened again.

  Out of the shadow of the stairwell, a slender figure emerged: Mira … naked.

  She held her clothes and weapons in one hand, having stripped them off as she descended the stair.

  Tahn could do nothing but stare.

  If he’d thought she was beautiful before, this defied every melura dream he’d ever had. Not even as alchera, after the change, did he think to see a woman like this. He became suddenly aware of his own nakedness, his physical reactions to the Far, and to his friend’s wide-eyed, slack-jawed gape. Tahn wanted to cover Sutter’s eyes, but realized how stupid it would appear.

  Despite their gawking, Mira didn’t appear the least bit inhibited or embarrassed. Nor was she clumsy or rushed, which made it that much more difficult for them to stop watching her. She placed her things out of the way of the water splashed onto the floor around the spring, and slipped into the warmth with them. She even traded looks with them, her expression one of confusion or wonder over Tahn and Sutter’s sudden silence and attention.

  Finally, she spoke. “I see neither of you are used to seeing a female bare.”

  Sutter said something unintelligible.

  Tahn caught that slightest of smiles on the Far’s lips. He looked through the steam rising off the water between them, and could think of just one thing to say. “Subtle.”

  It was the first time he’d ever heard her laugh. The sound of it could break a man’s heart, or make him the best self he had to offer.

  When her laugh had receded in the spring cavern, she said, somewhat matter-of-factly, “I value cleanliness, and at the Sheason’s instruction, where you go, I go.”

  “I see,” Tahn replied.

  “In truth, the unclothed body is not as noteworthy in my country as it is in the kingdoms of men. Our customs aren’t the same.”

  “Well, as long as that’s the case, I do have a question, if you don’t mind,” Tahn said.

  “I’ll answer if I can,” Mira said, slightly guarded.

  “Was the Hollows ever called by another name?”

  The Far gave him a wary look and brushed water from her face. “You overheard Vendanj and me talking near the fire.”

  “Guilty,” Sutter sputtered. He sat forward, causing
ripples in the water. “Tell us. It’s our home.”

  Tahn nodded in agreement. “Vendanj hasn’t exactly been free with his tongue, though he has felt free to thrust us from the Hollows into the path of Bar’dyn and Maere and a city full of secrets.” He looked straight at Mira. “Can there be anything about the Hollows that we are not entitled to know?”

  Mira eyed them both. Tahn thought he saw conflict in her face. “This is a reader’s story—an old one not often told anymore—but still not a secret that must be kept.”

  “Tell us already, I’m getting to look like Merid Lavia’s sunned fruits in here.” Sutter held up his fingers, showing them his wrinkled skin.

  “Very well,” the Far said, resting her head back upon the granite. “You remember that toward the end of the High Season, the Great Fathers who sat at the Tabernacle of the Sky began to see the work of the One and grew concerned for the preservation of the land and its peoples.”

  Tahn and Sutter nodded.

  “The Quiet were driven into the Bourne, and the veil was raised. But against the possibility that the veil should be breached, the First Ones consecrated an area in the land where the Quietgiven could not tread; where Velle could not render; where Quiet feet would find no rest; and where the lives of its people reflected their harmony with the Will. The very soil was sanctified, and its customs would in turn reflect understanding of the cycles—like your Northsun Festival.

  “In such a place, it was believed that the future of the land could be safeguarded against the day that all believed would come, when the One would find a way through the veil and send his Quiet into the world.”

  Mira paused, cupping a handful of water and dripping it on her lips and tongue to moisten them.

  The Hollows had been Tahn’s home since he could remember, but the thought that it had been set apart by the First Ones amazed him.

  Sutter seemed to have forgotten his concern for his shriveled fingers, examining them instead like newly found jewels. “In the soil…” he muttered.

  “Before the Craven Season passed, the Hallows had lost its name. It is well that it was so, or it would have become a miserable refugee colony. Half the people of every nation perished in war and butchery. Most of those who survived quarreled and fought, until nations joined in the First Promise. Those who put their mark to that Promise did so in the safety of the Hallows. History records it differently, but that’s where the First Promise was sealed after ratification at Recityv. With time the Hallows became a myth, leaving the ground there unremembered and uncontested in the ages that followed.”

  “And now?” Tahn asked.

  “Now the creatures out of the Bourne walk freely into the Hallows to strip your sister’s child from her.” The Far’s words reverberated in the warm stone room, echoing like an imprecation.

  “Then the Will is no more,” Tahn shot back.

  “Nonsense. The Will is eternal.” She stated it as fact, without passion.

  “Then tell us how the Bar’dyn came trundling down a riverbed and nearly pinched our heads from our necks,” Sutter said heatedly.

  “Things are changing; no doubt this is why Vendanj came to you. And the Hollows is still she’holta, still blessed. No war has ever been fought upon Hollows earth, not even the Second War of Promise. The Hollows is known to those who serve the Artificer, yet they have never passed into its borders, until now. It has served its purpose since the establishment of the Bourne. And, my friends,” the Far said, looking at Tahn and Sutter with narrowed eyes, “you ought to think on that when you find yourselves impatient with the Sheason. Regardless, these aren’t times to be speaking of such things to strangers. You hold close the secret of the Hallows.”

  Without another word, Mira got out of the spring. Tahn regarded her with deeper desire and appreciation. “I’ll get dressed and wait for you in the kitchen. Take your time, my Hollows friends.” She dressed unhurriedly in front of them, lashed her weapons on, then climbed the stair.

  “We’ll catch up.” Sutter dipped his head beneath the steaming surface of the water.

  They waited until Mira had shut the door at the top of the slick stair, then turned to each other with shocked expressions. They were simply too amazed to say anything. Neither was eager to stand, until the door at the top of the stair opened again.

  The two listened closely and looked up. Had Mira forgotten something? A moment later, two elderly couples came slowly into view. As they descended, they pulled robes from their shoulders, revealing their considerably puckered and sagging flesh.

  “Nudity was not meant for the aged,” Sutter whispered.

  “This spring must serve as one of those health bath houses for the elderly, among other things.” Tahn stifled a laugh until he realized anew that he and Sutter were naked, too.

  Tahn and Sutter jumped out of the water, grabbed their clothes, and looked for a place to hide. Nothing.

  Except …

  In the shadows on the far side of the spring, several stalactites formed something of a wall. The two melura from the Hollows dashed for the safety of the darkness and cover.

  “What are we going to do? They can still see our feet.” Sutter pranced a bit, dripping wet.

  As their eyes began to adjust, they noticed something they hadn’t seen before. Beyond the rock formation lay a second staircase. They smiled in the shadows and began to climb blindly until a crack of light showed them the way. Moments later they found a latch, pulled it free, and burst, still naked, into the alley beside the Granite Stone.

  The door slammed behind them—no latch on the outside. The stunned look they shared gradually shifted to mischief. And that turned to embarrassment as two young girls began to giggle, seeing Tahn and Sutter’s manhood hanging out in broad daylight.

  But their embarrassment didn’t last long. They’d gotten outside the Inn!

  * * *

  After Braethen let Mira know Tahn and Sutter were in the hot spring, he made an excuse for having to go back to the room. He was relieved when she descended the stair; he couldn’t wait any longer to find out what had happened to the Sheason.

  He removed his emblem. Clearly that would invite more speculation than would be helpful. Then he got himself out to the street and started to think. Ordinarily, he would have paused to recall tales that had described and depicted this place—there were many. But he needed to decide how best to help Vendanj.

  And it occurred to him.

  A book shop.

  Ever had the place where authors congregated and sold their wares been the hub of information and advice. It was true on a smaller scale in the Hollows, but A’Posian had related to Braethen in both written and spoken ways the magic and majesty of the book shops in the cities of Aeshau Vaal. His father, in his younger days, had visited many, so he ought to know.

  After asking just two passersby, he got directions, and made haste three streets over to Authors’ Tell, situated on the corner of a fairly busy intersection. Braethen went straight in and immediately felt at home.

  “Another young reader come to find a book, yes?” The stooped gentleman looked up at Braethen from his cane through thickish spectacles.

  “Maybe. I’m Braethen, son of A’Posian out of the Hollows.”

  “Son of an author, how are you, my boy! Usually such lads will have nothing to do with the work of their fathers. I’m A’Thalia. Though I mostly scribble these days. Stories are work, and I figure I’ve earned time to dawdle.” The old man began to pick up books and transfer them to a cart.

  Out of habit, Braethen helped him. “I guess I’m looking for information.”

  “We have that, too.” A’Thalia patted Braethen’s hands. “Not that one, I’m going to take that one home. It’s about a graellen and a lord who’s lost his will to fight. Wonderful!”

  Braethen thought carefully on how to ask about a possibly jailed Sheason. “I have a friend,” he began. “He was accused of something and was taken, I think, by the League for questioning. I’m trying to fi
nd out if he’s okay.”

  A’Thalia stopped in his tracks and gave Braethen a serious look. “Ah, boy, you’re already lying. Or holding back some of the truth. Wait a minute. Jartamara, Molanerus, Rhye, scuttle on out here.”

  Braethen held his breath, expecting cloaked leaguemen to appear from the depths of the bookshop. He waited. And waited. Finally three more stooped gentlemen, all somehow retaining their hair in its silver antiquity, puttered slowly with their walking canes over to them.

  After they’d introduced themselves, A’Thalia said, “All right, lad. Start again. And so you don’t think the elder men are gullible, you’re only getting this audience and second chance because I can tell you really do have an author for a pa, can tell by the way you handle the bindings on those books you loaded. Now, go on with it.”

  Braethen silently thanked his father. “I am a novice sodalist, recently bound to a Sheason. We came last night to Myrr, and almost immediately he was taken into custody by the League. He’s done nothing wrong. I only want to find out if he’s all right.”

  “I suspect it’s all true up until that last bit,” Rhye said.

  “Yup,” Jartamara agreed.

  “You’re right. If he’s in danger, I need to help him. But how is that wrong?”

  “I don’t think any of us commented on morality here, boy,” A’Thalia said. “And by the way, these fellows here happen to be authors, too. Though, mostly that garbage they use in teaching regiments. Except for Molanerus. He can spin a damn fine tale.”

  “How do I help him?” Braethen pressed.

  “Well, it just so happens we’ve heard about your Sheason, Braethen son of A’Posian. News of accusations travel fast in the story trade. He’s alive. Leastways, that’s what our reading fans tell us. And we have a few in the dungeons who need our wares to pass their lonely hours. So, we believe it.”

  “What’s to be done with him?”

  “That’ll depend on him.” A’Rhye loaded some tobaccom into a pipe. “Two stripes to the Sheason anymore. One will argue with his jailer, and like as not wind up swinging. Another will show his submissive side and be kept in jail for a piece of time. What’s your Sheason like?”